


One thing after another

by orphan_account



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Fluff, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-18
Updated: 2017-04-18
Packaged: 2018-10-20 17:39:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10667568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Yuuri Katsuki, a college student who doesn't know what to do with his life, finds a number in his pocket one hungover morning.Viktor Nikiforov, the beauty on the other side of the street, might have something to do with it.





	One thing after another

A strange feeling of foreboding awaits Yuuri when he eases from his unconsciousness. His eyes are shut tight and the throbbing pain in his skull tells him that he should save the hardest part - prying them open - for last.

But, and he realises this when he’s stretched out his stiff and sore limbs, the true complication is remembering what had happened the previous night.

His eyes finally crack open to reveal his distorted curtains. They’re distorted because his glasses are perched oddly on his nose. 

A weak groan slips out between his lips. Yuuri removes them and presses his eyelids together. To say that he feels horrible is an understatement. He rolls over and, instantaneously, his insides lurch unpleasantly. Yuuri clumsily scrambles out of bed and finds himself crouching above the toilet, glasses in his hand. They’re thrown away when he begins to eject bile from his protesting stomach, lurching forward and choking with every wave of rejected fluid, the back of his throat on fire. A strong whiff of alcohol triggers the intensification of his purge.

How many flutes of champagne was it? The Japanese man flips down the lid and leans against it, body shaking with heavy pants. His pounding head and surging heartbeat only allow his memories to reach up to six. The mystery exploits of the previous night only make his thoughts even less transparent.

Go to Chris’ after party, they said. It will be fun, they said.

He wipes his mouth, silently reminding himself to thank Phichit for his safe return, who is the most likely suspect for him being in his room unscathed - though, of course, not really since his body can’t take the amount of alcohol he had consumed. Cold sweat forms underneath his white dress shirt, which is unbuttoned at the chest and the cuffs, he notices briefly. Possible scenarios of what had happened fade into focus, with none of them containing sensible behaviour on his part. He vividly remembers downing his sixth - or was that his seventh? - flute, which allows any inkling of sobriety to crumble underneath his feet, and he’s too far gone afterwards.

There’s still that layer of foreboding, probing at his brain gently as if not to be identified. Yuuri is frustrated.

He retches and gags a couple of times, but when there’s no obvious warning of him having to vomit and he has enough energy to stand, he strips off and jumps into the shower, rinsing all of the sweat and grime from his weak form. He finds comfort in the hot jets of water that bounce off his shoulders and trickle from his hair.

Halfway through his shower he has to expel more bile. The nasty substance slides into the drain amongst sweet-smelling, fluffy shampoo bubbles.

 

A bitter taste still pervades his mouth when he steps out, lips stinging and aflame. That’s okay. One step at a time. He pushes open the bathroom window to release all of the steam, wincing at the sliver of exposed sunlight, but he feels slightly better.

Yuuri wraps his towel around his waist and brushes his teeth, scrubbing at his tongue, with his glasses still folded on the bathroom vanity. His eyes look red in his hunched reflection, mahogany eyes dull.

The Japanese man then shuffles to the kitchen to satisfy his thirst. The curtains surrounding the apartment protect his currently tender vision from harsh light.

His eyes remain closed while he waits for the water in the kettle to boil (even hungover Yuuri is careful, he doesn’t trust the tap water too much). Once that’s done, he fills a glass with cold tap water and boiling water. He thirstily lifts it to his face. The clear fluid passes his dry lips and he sighs in pleasure when it slides down his burning throat, soothing it on contact, before preparing and going through another glass. Then another. Oh god, he will need a dozen to finally be satiated.

Rubbing his sore eyes with his knuckles, ignoring the fact that it’s a bad habit, he realises that Phichit isn’t at the apartment. Upon prodding the door open he knows that his room is empty. His Thai friend must be at skating practice.

He returns to the bathroom to collect the mess of clothes strewn across the floor. A crumpled piece of paper peeks out of his pants pocket, which he picks up and flattens out. 

A set of numbers is scrawled out on the dented surface. Yuuri cringes. Any inquisition he harbors for the story behind this is pushed aside, and he tosses it in the paper bin kept beside his desk, after he’s deposited his suit pants in the plastic basin to be hand washed later.

Yuuri dresses quickly and moves his towel to his hair. He picks up his phone from the table next to his bed and switches it on.

12:23 pm. With his immediate visit to the toilet and shower in consideration, he’s up unsurprisingly late… there’s a packet of ramen he could quickly get on the stove, though Yuuri wants nothing more than to collapse on the couch and lie pitifully all day. After lowering the brightness of his screen he shuts it off.

_ I’m still forgetting something. _

Thankfully it’s the beginning of vacation, so nothing can stop Yuuri from being such a mess.

This notion pulls his hungover daydreams to a stop.

Wait.

12:23?

He checks again through a squint, the time being 12:24 now, and blinks slowly.

Isn’t he supposed to meet Phichit, who finishes skating practice early today, at the mall for lunch at 12:40?

Oh, boy. Yuuri panics. How will he turn up in this state? And they’re supposed to be seeing a movie afterwards.

After a good five minutes of incoherent panicked thinking, and ‘shit’ escaping his mouth every second, he pulls himself together and decides to just go. He takes his backpack, makes sure his wallet contains enough money, shoves his glasses on his nose, and runs for it.

He backtracks at the door - or slams into it - to check for his keys. Once everything is in order the Japanese man locks the apartment from outside and breaks for the mall.

Everything is just so  _ unfair _ . Why can’t it be a cloudy day? Why did he drink so much last night?

Surprisingly, Yuuri survives his haphazard travel and he’s waiting upstairs next to the entrance of the cinema. Four minutes late, but there. He texts Phichit after catching his breath to let him know of his presence.

Today, 12:45 pm

  
You: phichit im here

 

Unsurprisingly, the Thai man is not there yet. The distance between the skating rink and the mall would cause his tardiness. Yuuri extracts a water bottle out of his bag and takes a swig.

You: phichit? 

You: hello?

You: phichit, are you coming?

He slips further into his anxiety with each passing moment. His heart is racing by the time his phone reads that it’s one pm.

Today, 1:00 pm

You: phichit please text me

Confusion and consternation mix, and Yuuri knows that he shouldn’t be worrying this much but he just is because he’s all alone and panicking and he probably looks like a fool-

Deep breaths. Brooding over minor things like this will get him nowhere. Phichit is probably just late. Exactly twenty minutes late. He looks around, seeing shoppers brush past from both directions, ignoring his frozen form. 

Then his swivelling stare latches on a particular figure. A strange sensation floods his senses, washing over him like a wave. His eyes widen when he sees  _ him _ .

But he’s not Phichit. He’s  _ Viktor _ .

Viktor Nikiforov. Chris’ friend. He looks as beautiful as ever, albeit a little dishevelled. Yuuri remembers first catching his eye when he arrived at the after party. Embarrassed, the Japanese man turned away, but he could still feel the other’s sparkling, curious stare. Staring at him, Yuuri Katsuki, a quiet and anxious first-year at college.

That was the first time, of many events, he was caught staring.

Yuuri doesn’t know what to do. He stays rooted on his spot, a deer caught in headlights, eyeing the Russian as he pauses near the escalators, checking his phone. Some odd mutual force causes their eyes to meet, and just when their gazes touch, Yuuri’s own phone buzzes, possibly and hopefully signalling that Phichit has replied.

He is mortified when he realises that a vibrant splash of red stains his cheeks. He hides his face as he lifts his phone.

Phichit: huh??

Phichit: wait, yuuri, this is saturday

Phichit: i finish early on sunday

Phichit: we made plans for tomorrow didn’t we??

  
A plate smashes on the floor in Yuuri’s mind. He groans.  _ Of course _ . It’s Saturday. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He panicked over nothing.

Phichit: oh i’m so sorry yuuri i got you confused didn’t i

Phichit: shit shit i’ll make it up to you!! I’ll pay for your food tomorrow!

Phichit: i would come now but i’m already with leo and guang-hong

Phichit: do you want to join us? i know you refused when i asked last week but we’re cooking lunch

Oops.

“Yuuri?”

The addressed man jumps at Viktor’s voice. The way his name rolls off the Russian’s tongue so comfortably creates a bubbly, fuzzy feeling in his chest.

“H-Huh?”

Viktor smiles. “There’s no need to be embarrassed, Yuuri!”

He is very confused. Since when is he on speaking terms with Viktor?

“Sorry…?”

The silver locks covering his eye shift as he leans in. “What’s the matter?” 

Swallowing, Yuuri rakes his fingers through his black hair. “Well, my friend and I made plans to meet up, but I got confused and it turns out that it’s tomorrow.” He swiftly explains in his soft-spoken english.

“Oh, I see, I see…” Viktor taps his chin as he continues to stare at Yuuri. The latter cowers slightly, hyper aware of being the center of his attention. 

“I’ll just text Phichit and tell him that I’ll just go back home.” He says, preparing to do as such.

Viktor starts. “Wait, do you want me to take you to lunch?”

These words stop Yuuri. His fingers hover above his screen as his brain, still weak from the hangover, processes this solution. The man before him watches almost nervously.

“I won’t be imposing, will I?” He asks slowly, and is hurriedly denied.

The thing he wants to do the most is to go home and sleep. He knows he won’t go far with this decision - wait, maybe Viktor would go with him and stay? No, that would be weird. They just met.

This is his chance to bond with him. Admittedly he’d always admire him from a distance, like from the safety of his favourite corner of the cafe near campus, or eyeing him from across the road as he walked a large poodle, but this time he’s right here. Acknowledging his presence and eager to accompany him!

His mouth begins to form an answer, but once again something stops him. He could just run back home, hole up in his room and be a pathetic, hungover hermit for the rest of the day, right? No harm done. He’ll be safe and sound.

Viktor must see the look in his eyes, because he visibly droops, his sparkling blue gaze dropping its focus, a pout dragging on his thin lips. A kicked puppy.

Is he trying to guilt-trip him?

He steels himself. 

Words fall out before he can stop them. “Sure.”

Instantly, Viktor’s lips stretch out in a heart-shaped smile that brightens up his entire expression, and Yuuri is certain that he will collapse. “Let me text Phichit, uh, he’s my friend. Erm, thank you so much.” He bows.

“No problem!” The receiver of his bow looks amused. Yuuri’s hands are shaking as he changes his message, feeling warm when he reads Phichit’s flow of texts.

You: it’s okay i was just really hungover. viktor is here. he’s taking me to lunch

He stiffens, back arching slightly when the mentioned Russian suddenly materialises beside him, snaking an arm around his own. 

A deep inhale allows Yuuri’s nose to pick up the appealing smell of early morning. He stifles a shiver. “What are you doing?” He voices in a strained, nonplussed tone.

“Taking you to lunch, of course! There’s a cafe right up here.” Is the innocent reply given, to his exasperation. He finds himself complying when he turns to face Viktor, slipping his phone into the pocket of his grey hoodie and zipping it up as he is speedily escorted across the mall. Viktor says something at which Yuuri hums in response because he’s distracted.

Are all cute Russians like this? He’s almost as bad as Chris, which is understandable since the pair are friends.

_ Stop letting yourself be affected by him. You’re not a crushing schoolgirl _ , he reprimands himself.

The Japanese man, still recovering from a bad hangover, feels rejuvenated. He is given a small cup of coffee with enough cream to alleviate some of the bitterness, along with Viktor’s low “You’ll need it” as he returns to his own seat. Yuuri doesn’t truly know what he means by that but he is grateful.

He takes out his phone to see Phichit’s reply. The smallest of smiles spreads on his cheeks.

Phichit: oooh okay! have fun!

Phichit: again im so so so so so sorry, yuuri! <3

Soon after, their orders arrive; which are a plate of tomato and cheese toasted sandwiches and a light bowl of chicken stew, for Viktor and Yuuri respectively.

The pair sit across from each other, making conversation in between pieces of bread and spoonfuls of stew, revealing fragments of each other through light topics. The clusters of people that walk past their window are ignored.

Both of them are warming up to each other at their own paces - Viktor, enthusiastically, Yuuri, tentatively. Both of them treasure what they learn about each other.

Viktor is a morning person. Yuuri, however, is not.

They both love dogs. Viktor positively glows when Yuuri tells him so after his description of his poodle, Makkachin.

Yuuri’s favourite colour is blue, and he says this after a bit of begging on Viktor’s part and a fair amount of blushing on his own side. The other participant of the conversation really can’t decide, stressing that it depends on his mood, though he gradually narrows the list down to mauve and aubergine. 

“What are your hobbies, Yuuri?” Viktor enquires in genuine interest, pushing his empty plate away. The man opposite him looks a little startled at the topic being steered directly to him, though grateful that he truly does want to know him.

“Well, I like skating.” He answers shyly, the Russian’s voice echoing in his thoughts, continuously saying Yuuri, Yuuri, Yuuri.

Viktor nearly jumps out of his seat in excitement.

“Really?!”

“Yes,” Yuuri decides to add more to his input for the man’s sake, who resembles a boisterous puppy. “I learned when I was really young. A friend taught me. I’ve always liked skating, but Phichit is the one who has a coach to train with.”

He lifts his spoon to his lips while Viktor speaks, suddenly serious. “I want to see you skate.”

“What? Now?” Yuuri squeaks.

He nods.

“Like, right now?” He’s flabbergasted.

Another nod.

“But I don’t have my skates!”

“The rented skates will do.”

He quickly swallows the rest of his stew, barely being given enough time to protest when Viktor slides out of his chair to pay.

Yuuri stares at his feet. Today’s events are going too quickly for his worn mind - It’s almost exhilarating. He wants to show off to Viktor, to impress him. The anxiety in the back of his mind, tucked away and sheltered by shadow, tells him that it won’t be enough. 

Surely, he’s good enough to impress Viktor, a voice tells him.

Since when was this about Viktor? Another asks.

Since you began crushing on him, is the answer. 

He turns red. He only just began talking to him today, how could he possibly identify as his crush?

“Yuuri?”

He looks up at his name. Yuuri, Yuuri, Yuuri. He wants to hear it again.

“I’m ready. Let’s walk there.”

\---

“I said, ‘let’s walk there’, not ‘let’s run there’.” Yuuri wheezes, leaning against the entrance of the building. It’s a good thing he rehydrated himself earlier. Viktor, who is a monster as he has just learned, patiently waits for him to catch his breath.

“It’s a good warm-up!” He expresses with a smile that only says “Tough luck”. Yuuri will learn to either resent or love him.

At least the silver-haired Russian has the courtesy to hold open the glass door. He gasps out a thank-you and enters.

\---

  
Yuuri removes his skate guards and moves onto the rink after a brief stumble. There aren’t too many people there, and thankfully the lights are dim. Viktor stays behind the dasher board, his penetrating blue eyes following his movements.

Since the rink has just reopened after having the ice smoothed out, the music is yet to start.

The Japanese man closes his eyes. He inhales.

There is one thing that he has spent time on with his ballet instructor, Minako, back in Japan. The ability to improvise. Minako has encouraged him to develop this skill along with his confidence. Both rely on each other, and he understands the importance. He keeps his mind on this and only this, closing off from his surroundings.

So, when the first strains of a song he recognises emerge, he allows himself to be swallowed in the tune.

_ Keep your eyes on me, and don’t look away. _

He pivots in sync with the first verse, connects this with a delicate bracket turn and slide chasse, gliding until a stronger, distinct clink of the piano jolts him to bend forwards and rotate once in a position that mimics a wilting rose. He stretches out, lifting his arms and staring through the ceiling. Spinning as the hand caressing his body flutters down, twisting, soft movements dominating his little performance until the voice strengthens and the music peaks - and the beat escalates, causing his improvised dance to do so alongside it.

There aren’t any intricate jumps, but there is a moment where Yuuri gains enough momentum and there are areas in the song that beg for one. It’s obvious to Viktor that he is holding back, but he is mesmerised.

He’s flying, spinning when a high note is held, his positions secure and the embodiment of perfection, and everyone gives way for him as he pours effort into his moves, channeling them into his performance.

Viktor does not look away.

Then he stops after a flying sit spin. It’s right after the chorus ends and it ends too soon, but the look on Viktor’s face lets him know that it’s enough.

A few people applaud, and he reddens slightly, wiping his nose as he clumsily approaches Viktor, fingers fidgeting.

“Well? How did it go?” 

Viktor covers his face with his hands and he flinches in trepidation.

“I-”

He suddenly places them on his shoulders. “Yuuri.” He says quietly.

“Viktor?”

He leans forward and finds himself in a warm embrace, his breath hitching when Viktor’s fingers tighten on his shoulder blades. He feels gross and sweaty and a little dizzy but he throws his state aside when Viktor leans backwards to lock eyes with him.

“What is happening?” He murmurs to himself.

“That was amazing, Yuuri. You didn’t add anything special in terms of technicalities, and I understand that because there are other people in the rink, but your choreography… I don’t know how to explain it.”

He pushes him even further away, though his grip remains strong. “It’s like… you’re an epitome of the song. You’re creating music with your movements. You adjusted to the song’s emotions perfectly. It’s amazing!” Viktor rambles. The heart-shaped smile is back and Yuuri feels even more dizzy. “Your performance scores would be quite high if you were competing.”

The man he is praising is flushed with pleasure. He hopes that his blush is regarded as a result of his exertion. 

_ Viktor thinks my skating was amazing.  _ He removes himself from his grasp because, well, too much human contact. At this rate he’ll actually suffer from withdrawal.

“Yuuri, I want to train with you from now on!” He proclaims, capturing the man on the ice in another hug, who gasps from his shoulder. Yuuri wants to scream.

“Really?”

“Yes!”

For the next two hours, both of them skate around on the rink as more people flow in. Viktor shows off as much of his own skating as he can in the crowd, and the pair make rounds around the rink together, exchanging casual talk. Yuuri is more unstable on the ice than usual, and he has to somewhat lean on Viktor at times but that is ignored. They bump into others and fall down, they push each other and fall down, they pull weird stunts (mostly from Viktor) and fall down, but they laugh. Viktor is visibly pleased when he manages to draw a laugh out of Yuuri, one that is deep and leaves him even more breathless, but when he cuts it off in embarrassment the silver haired man’s comical grovelling and begging coaxes another one out from his chest.

Yuuri usually takes longer than this to open up to this extent. He’s not himself, though, and he’s wondering whether this is the toll of the alcohol or if it’s Viktor’s fault.

Not that he’s complaining. He hasn’t had this much fun in a long time.

They step off the ice for a break and Viktor finds himself staring as the Japanese removes his glasses to wipe the clouding lenses, leaning against the dasher board. His hair has been swept back, damp from sweat.

Viktor laughs nervously when he realises that Yuuri has already placed them back on and is staring at him at concern.

The pair leave the lockers after Yuuri has retrieved his hoodie, phone and backpack. They’re both giggling silently as they step outside, relishing the cool wind that has set in.

“Thanks for today.” Yuuri says giddily after he controls his breath, suddenly shy again, but he’s maintaining eye contact. His hair is back to normal somewhat and his grey hoodie is back on.

Viktor can see himself in his reflective glasses. Behind the lens, mahogany eyes are sparkling, not in the barely contained wild glee he identified earlier, but in plain happiness. His eyes are still tinted red and dark circles are prominent on his pale skin, which seems to glow in the dipping sunlight nonetheless.

His lips curl upwards. “It was a pleasure, Yuuri.”

The raven black-haired man’s heart thumps against his chest.  _ Say it again. _

“I’ll catch a bus from here. You?”

“I’m walking. We should do this again sometime, just text or call me and we can work it out.” Viktor smiles. “Get some sleep.” He tells him.

“Okay.”

“See you.”

“See you later.”

“Take care of yourself.”

“I know!” Yuuri laughs.

They turn. Yuuri walks down the path and waits at the traffic light, staring at Viktor, who directly crosses the road and turns the corner, away from sight.

Yuuri can’t wait to see him again. The adrenaline finally fades away, causing his exhaustion to seep in, and the light flashes green.

As he steps onto the road tarmac, it hits him, but he knows that it’s too late to fix.

Viktor hasn’t given him his number.

At first he’s deeply upset. Perhaps Viktor is not true on his hopes to meet again. Perhaps he forgot. But why does he seem so genuine? 

Then there is an inkling of wonder.

Once Yuuri leaves the bus with a polite thank-you and arrives at the apartment, Phichit flings himself at him, spilling with incoherent apologies. Yuuri tells him that it’s okay, that it’s okay, that it’s okay, and when his Thai friend is finally reassured, he promises a recount of the day’s events once he takes a short nap. 

“I’ll wake you up at seven.” Phichit tells him. He agrees wearily and exits to the safety of his bedroom, approaching the bin that clings to the side of his desk.

He takes the piece of paper. Flattens it out once more.

He wasn’t hallucinating this morning. The phone number is still on there.

Yuuri puts his phone on the charger and adds the number into his contacts.

Today, 6:13 pm

You: is this viktor?

He gets an answer almost immediately.

Viktor: yes! hello!

Yuuri’s heart picks up. He waits anxiously as Viktor continues to type.

Viktor: Yuuri, yes? 

You: that’s me. i’m going to take a nap now

You: text you soon?

He really wants to ask how he got Viktor’s number. It was certainly given during the after-party. Curiosity killed the cat, though, and he decides that it’s a story for another day. He’s worried about the answer, and he’s too tired.

Besides, he’s not desperate.

  
Viktor: alright, have sweet dreams~!

After giving himself the satisfaction of re-reading the same text several times, he tears his gaze away from his phone.


End file.
